


just like (liquid) courage

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Drinking Games, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, F/M, human disasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 17:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13816410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: In his defense, it’s not like he went in expecting to crash and burn. Dmitry opened the bottle of vodka absolutely convinced that he was going to be the one left standing at the end of the night.The last thing he imagined was that he'd lose to Anya in a drinking competition.





	just like (liquid) courage

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sure dmitry has a pretty high alcohol tolerance, being a street kid, and... y'know, russian.
> 
> it's just. anya's is higher. okay? believe me on this one.

In his defense, it’s not like he went in _expecting_ to crash and burn. Dmitry opened the bottle of vodka absolutely convinced that he was going to be the one left standing at the end of the night.

It’s just, Anya… Anya’s _tiny,_ okay? She’s angry, but she’s tiny. She could beat him up, sure, but her hands are so small, and she’s so short that he could probably just pick her up and move her somewhere else…. or just hold her tight until she finally stopped fighting. The old mothers on the streets used to do that with their babies. Would it work with Anya too?

The woman in front of him suddenly blurs when his vision goes all fuzzy. Dmitry squeezes his eyes shut, turning away from Anya, and groans.

“What the hell,” he mutters, “did you do to my eyes?”

Anya’s laugh bubbles; it sounds like an improvised orchestra, or the sounds of the bells that used to chime in the grand old church in Petersburg square. (That church is gone now. All the religion has been stripped away, taking the superstition and magic with it; now women hang laundry over the pews.)

“You did it to yourself,” she retorts. “I said you couldn’t outdrink me.”

She did say it. Dmitry was determined to prove her wrong. Like he said, Anya is tiny…

But she also lived on the street, same as he did. She’s probably had more than her share of vodka.

Who knew princesses could hold their liquor so well?

Hah. _Princess Anya._ The thought makes Dmitry stifle a laugh into the hand that’s pressed over his face. Her Royal Streetsweeperness… Grand Duchess Amnesia… Her Majesty, the Lost Princess. Anya is the farthest thing from a princess that he could imagine, the farthest thing from the little girl who sparkled in the summer sun as her carriage raced along a crowded street. Anya, with her gaunt features and malnourished frame, sharp tongue and ready fists, grimy cheeks and gleaming blue eyes…

Anya is no princess. She just makes the perfect Anastasia.

“Dmitry,” a familiar voice cuts into his thoughts, sounding miles away. “Are you okay? You’re swaying.”

He sits up straight, blinking at her. She’s still blurry, but he can make out the details of her features. He can see the flush in her cheeks, and the obnoxious sobriety in her eyes. She drank as much as he did! It’s not fair!

“Fair’s relative,” she retorts, and only then does he realize he said that out loud. He stubbornly clamps his mouth shut, unwilling to let any more of his thoughts escape unchecked. Anya notices, just like she notices _everything_ he wishes she wouldn’t. She tilts her head, blinking at him, and reaches out. He doesn’t realize he really is swaying until her hand on her shoulder steadies him.

“Tell you what — let’s get you to bed. If you pass out on me, I won’t carry you.”

“Don’t need a bed,” he mutters. “Jus’ my couch. I like my couch.”

“You sleep on your couch every night,” she retorts, rolling her eyes. “We don’t even have a bed.”

Dmitry considers this as Anya helps pull him to his feet. His weight settles heavily on unsteady legs, but he somehow manages to stay upright. (He suspects Anya has a lot to do with it.) “If we did have a bed,” he declares, “I want a big one. With pillows. Lots of ‘em.”

“Plenty of pillows,” Anya agrees, steering him towards his settee.

“‘N fluffy comforters.”

“Comforters you could drown in.”

“I don’t wanna drown while sleeping.” He flops down onto the couch heavily, and blinks up at her. “What’s _wrong_ with you?”

“Me?” Her voice is sharp, but not angry; she sounds like she wants to laugh. “You’re the one who can’t even stand up straight.”

“Can too.” Dmitry tries to prove this on his own, but his body has made itself very comfortable on the couch. It doesn’t feel like moving, no matter what ideas might cross through his head. After a few aborted attempts, he has to concede Anya’s point.

“You’re mean,” he tells her matter-of-factly. “What sort of princess can down a bottle of vodka like nothing?”

Anya considers this for a moment. “A Russian one, I guess,” she finally replies, sitting down next to him. Dmitry leans into her without really realizing what he’s doing. He’s aware of it in the back of his mind, of course; but there’s no reason to stop himself. Anya is a solid presence next to him. She’s warm, and her shoulder is soft enough that he can almost imagine it’s one of the pillows in their dream bed.

She lets out a tiny noise of surprise when his head lands on her. At least she doesn’t try to move away. If she did that, he’d be really annoyed. Instead, she remains perfectly still for a moment before piping up: “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” he mutters, scrunching his brows as his eyes shut. “I can hold my drink.”

“Of course you can.”

Her hand pats his head gently; long fingers caress his scalp, combing through the untamed locks of his hair. He hates admitting to himself that it feels nice. He settles on not pulling away, which feels like a worthy compromise. A low humm rumbles in Anya’s chest, not carrying any melody but contentment. The vodka has made Dmitry hazy, but it’s left her calm and content. He envies her a bit.

“If you were,” he mutters, and has to stop to lick his lips. His voice is heavy with drowsiness, dripping like syrup onto Anya’s breast. “If you were her… you’d be a bad princess.”

Anya is quiet for a long moment. “Well,” she finally says, “I can’t see myself being a good one, anyways.”

“You’d be awful,” he agrees, and she huffs. “But you’re a great Anya. And you’d be a great her.”

Anya’s chest is still. Dmitry wonders if she’s breathing. “Her?”

“You know. Ana- Ansa- Anstra- you know. _Her.”_

Anya’s hand remains still in his hair for one long moment, before finally picking up its rhythm again. Dmitry sighs contentedly, slumping further into Anya’s warmth.

“I know what you mean,” she replies quietly. “Thank you.”

Dmitry has a response on the tip of his lips, but he’s asleep before he can say it.


End file.
